


Texture

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Anxiety, Asphyxiation, Awkward Sexual Situations, Boys Kissing, Breathplay, Choking, Established Relationship, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2761139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'We don’t have to,' Abe says, and if it comes out gruffer than he intends, well, there’s only so much he can do to swallow back his disappointment. 'If you don’t want to, Ren --'" Abe loves Mihashi's hands, and he has a request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Texture

Abe can tell that Mihashi is terrified.

He’s gotten better at identifying the symptoms of the bone-deep fright the other boy sometimes shows, the way his eyes will skid away from direct contact and the way his hands will tremble until no one would believe he has the pitching skills Abe has seen first-hand on countless occasions. At least this time he  _knows_  what it is that is scaring the other boy so badly. There are few things that will cause such unmitigated panic the way that Abe asking him to take control will. Abe doesn’t know if that’s a holdover from his junior high experience, some learned phobia of being abandoned to his own devices, or if it’s just a natural anxiety as deep in Mihashi’s blood as his love of baseball, this fear of being responsible for someone else.

The cause doesn’t matter, he tells himself over and over. What matters is that it exists, this fluttery reaction of uncontrolled panic, and what matters more is that Abe resist the urge to take this away, to step in and lift away what he is asking Mihashi to do. He can handle himself in games, Abe tells himself, and there’s no one here but Abe, and by all reasonable standards that should be reassuring.

From the way Mihashi is starting to curl in on himself, it is not. Even sitting next to him on his own bed, Abe can hardly see any of the details of his face. The gold-brown of his eyes is hidden by the dip of his chin, the soft curl of his hair is nearly all of his head that Abe can see, and his shoulders are shaking so badly Abe can pick the motion out clearly without even reaching out to feel the vibration under his fingers.

“We don’t have to,” he says, and if it comes out gruffer than he intends, well, there’s only so much he can do to swallow back his disappointment. “If you don’t want to, Ren --” and there’s a thrill in that casual familiarity, still, the rush of shock as if the other boy’s name is electrified warm and sparking on his tongue. “You can say no.”

It’s a common reminder. Mihashi should know, by now, has had months and years of Abe’s presence to persuade him that the other boy isn’t going anywhere, no matter how many times he says no, no matter what he’s refusing. But Abe’s still not sure how much Mihashi trusts him, still has to remind himself to remind Mihashi what is okay, what he is allowed to do. He’s staring at what little of Mihashi’s face he can see, looking for a flutter of eyelashes, the curve of a frown,  _anything_  to say no in case Mihashi can’t get his throat to form around the words. But there’s nothing, no movement at all except for the shudder of breathing in the other boy’s shoulders.

Abe’s still watching, waiting for some kind of refusal, when Mihashi’s shaking steadies out. There’s a long, deliberate inhale, catching into a stutter in Mihashi’s throat but deep and focused nonetheless, and then the other boy lifts his chin. His eyes are all gold, clear and determined even though his mouth is trembling, even though his voice breaks as he says, “But you want this.”

“I do,” Abe admits. It’s true, true enough that he can’t form any kind of polite demurral. His hands are shaking with how badly he wants this, the flush in his cheeks is at least as much from anticipation as it is nerves, but. But still. “But if you don’t, then --”

He means to say don’t. He’s ready to deny his interest if it’s one-sided, after all, there’s no part of him that’s interested in forcing Mihashi into something the other boy is uncomfortable with. But Mihashi’s eyes drop as he’s speaking, catch at the collar of his shirt, and when Mihashi moves it’s with the startling speed he shows, sometimes, when determination entirely overrides his own anxious hesitation. His fingers catch at Abe’s shoulder, pressure dragging over the cloth of the other boy’s shirt for a moment; then his fingers are at bare skin, the tips of his fingers against the side of Abe’s neck, and Abe’s words die in his throat.

“Oh,” Mihashi says in a very small voice. His thumb slips, drags sideways across Abe’s neck, and it takes every shred of resistance Abe possesses to bite back the whimper that pulls hot in his throat. Mihashi’s not even pushing, he’s not doing anything more than resting his fingers on Abe’s skin, but his touch feels like midday sunlight on winter-chill skin. Abe can feel his pulse coming faster under the faint pressure of the other boy’s fingers, can feel his breathing shorting out as if in time-lapse over his expectations.

“Ren,” and he doesn’t sound any better than he feels, he sounds like he’s choking on the words themselves. Mihashi’s eyes come up, slower than usual, until he’s gazing at Abe with the same wide-eyed trust that’s always in his expression when he looks at the other boy. Usually that expression warms Abe through all his blood, the responsibility settling strength into his bones, but this time he can feel his hands shaking, has to stare straight into Mihashi’s eyes to hold himself steady.

“Use your other hand,” he offers, or tries to offer. It comes out like an order, so sharp with the tension humming hot in his veins he expects Mihashi to flinch and pull away. But Mihashi is expecting it, or maybe there’s something strange in Abe’s face that he’s not aware of, because the other boy doesn’t pull away. He’s lifting his other hand, now, curling his fingers in gentle against Abe’s throat, and Abe has to shut his eyes because he can feel the texture of Mihashi’s callused fingertips on his skin. The other boy’s thumbs bump together, line up and in place on Abe’s throat, and Abe can feel Mihashi’s wrists shaking with uncertainty but he’s breathing as hard if the touch is truly offering some sort of restriction to his breathing.

“Takaya?” Mihashi asks. Abe has to blink to bring his eyes back into focus, to pull his attention back to his vision instead of exclusively centered on the friction of the other boy’s fingers on his pulse.

“Yeah,” Abe manages. “I’m fine.” He forces himself to swallow, pushes himself through a deep breath, fills his lungs even as his throat shivers in anticipation of pressure. “You can push harder.”

Mihashi’s touch loosens, his hands twitch like he’s thinking about pulling away entirely. Abe can see his eyes getting impossibly wider, catching the light until they are nearly glowing and liquid with possible tears. “A-abe-kun, I c-can --”

Abe doesn’t know if it’s a question or a refusal, doesn’t wait out the stutter in Mihashi’s throat because the old name is enough to speak to the other’s fright. He can see the moment shattering, can see the chance slipping through his fingers as Mihashi’s grip loosens, and it is his own flush of desperation that seizes his tongue so when he says “ _Push harder_ ” it comes out as an order instead of the request he intends.

Abe always expects Mihashi to pull back from that voice. When a  _gentle_  voice can make Mihashi flinch, when a touch can startle him into full-blown panic, the almost-shout in Abe’s throat ought to send Mihashi skittering away, ought to ruin everything. But Mihashi’s chin comes down, his shoulders steady in a way Abe never sees outside the lines of his uniform, and the fright in his expression evaporates. His wrists fall into line, his fingers fit against the back of Abe’s neck, and when his thumbs press in it’s with unerring grace, synchronized and perfectly aligned with Abe’s airway. His hands are  _strong_ , Abe’s always shocked at how strong Mihashi’s hands are, and when he tries to take a breath it’s caught thin and difficult around the pressure of those practice-callused fingers.

“ _God_ ,” he tries to say, but that comes out strained too, he can hear Mihashi’s hands under the sound of the word. “ _Yes_ , fuck.” His blood is pounding in his head, he imagines he can feel every heartbeat thud itself against Mihashi’s fingertips, he’s going harder with every half-choked breath. When he tips his head back it pushes his throat in closer, harder against Mihashi’s hands like an offering and a plea at once. He can feel the hesitation in the other boy’s touch, the steady-state pressure not quite accepting the invitation until he sucks in half an inhale and manages, “ _More_.”

Mihashi’s hand are gentle, strangely careful even as his fingers tighten, as the pressure catches the last edge of air Abe had and closes it off. There’s a pause, a moment before Abe quite realizes; then he tries to take an inhale, his throat working instinctively for more air, and nothing comes but the motion divorced from the usual result. The lightheadedness that hits him is more from the heat that hits his blood than from need for air, but some of the burn must flicker his expression into glazed distraction for a moment, because Mihashi does pull away, snatches his hands back like Abe’s skin has flashed white-hot for a moment.

“Abe-kun!”

In the absence of pressure Abe gasps air, reflex overriding desire, but even a full lungful of oxygen isn’t enough to so much as take the edge off the flame of want licking at his skin, does nothing to soften the hard-on pressing taut against the front of his pants. His head is swimming, a drumbeat of desire thudding in his pulse, but Mihashi’s eyes are shining with panic and he has his hands curled in tight at his chest, as if he’s terrified to even accidentally brush Abe’s skin, and that’s not okay, Abe needs to  _fix_  that.

“Ren.” His voice is low, hoarse around the insistent thrum of his heartbeat, but Mihashi’s eyes flicker into calm just at the sound of his name, he’s leaning in for comfort before Abe can get his fingers up to close gentle around his wrist. “It’s fine.”

“I was  _hurting_  you,” Mihashi half-sobs. His fingers are clenching tighter into a fist as Abe draws his hand away from his chest, his grip so tight Abe can see his knuckles going white.

“You weren’t,” Abe says with as much calm as he can manage. Either he can’t muster much, or Mihashi is particularly resistant at the moment; the other isn’t even looking at him, has ducked his head and is trembling with the tension that is as good as a desperate headshake would be in anyone else.

There is nothing Abe wants more than Mihashi’s hands tight around his throat, to feel the pressure of those practice-callused fingers gentle and secure around his breathing. But he needs it to be willing, needs to see the light in Mihashi’s eyes instead of blurred tears, and that requires all the minimal store of patience he has struggled to build up over the last few years. At least he is better, now, at knowing what works; he may lack any sense of intuition when it comes to this, but he is thorough in his studies, and he has had plenty of time to study Mihashi.

Words won’t work. Verbal reassurance isn’t enough, words are too easy to form into lies. It’s the physical contact that does it, the tangible certainty of an ace’s jersey or the comfort of fingers clasping tight together. Abe tugs at Mihashi’s wrist again.

“Here.” He’s blushing with self-consciousness but Mihashi’s not looking at him, so at least he doesn’t have anyone to see. “Open your hand.” Mihashi hesitates for a minute, stalls until Abe says, “ _Open your hand_ ” with as much command and as little aggression as he can manage.

Mihashi uncurls his fingers, offers his palm to Abe like he’s begging for a gift. Abe shifts his hold, turns the other boy’s hand over, and after a moment of hesitation so brief he doesn’t think Mihashi notices at all, presses those familiar fingers in against the front of his pants.

“ _Oh_ ,” Mihashi gasps, loud and shocked as if he’s the one being touched, and Abe is blushing all over his face now but he doesn’t want Mihashi to  _stop_ , now that he’s getting even the tentative pressure of curious fingers against him.

“Understand?” he growls, his voice going rough and harsh with too much self-awareness, but Mihashi doesn’t react the the tone. His eyes are wide, he’s staring down at his fingers with enough intensity that Abe would jerk away with embarrassment if the other’s eyes weren’t shining so bright with shocked pleasure.

It’s a moment before Mihashi thinks to speak. He’s pressing in with his hand, too caught up in the heat under his palm to quite realize what he’s doing, and Abe doesn’t have the focus to stop him. It’s rare to get Mihashi to touch him without asking directly, rare that Abe is desperate enough to put voice to such a request, and even if this wasn’t his plan for the night it’s more than enough for satisfaction.

Then Mihashi’s wrist steadies, stills, and he nods, clear and careful. “I-I understand.” A breath, conscious focus coming into play. “Takaya.”

“Ren,” Abe blurts, and Mihashi is looking up at him and his whole world is narrowing in on the hazel glow of those eyes. It’s enough, the press of friction through his jeans and the absolute trust in that stare; then Mihashi swallows, blinks hard, and uncurls his free hand. Abe’s breath catches on anticipation before Mihashi has even reached for him; he can’t take a full lungful of air, is gasping high and shallow well before the other’s thumb touches against his skin again.

“Oh god,” he says, and he can feel the vowels buzzing against the almost-pressure of Mihashi’s fingers. “Ren.” He tips his head back, he can’t help himself, and Mihashi takes a short sharp breath but Abe’s lost to the heat of his fingers. “Both hands?”

It’s a question, not a command. Mihashi moves slowly, draws his hand away from Abe’s jeans like he’s dancing, like he’s feeling out the movement of an action before he commits to doing it. His touch is more gentle this time even than the first, his fingers skating against and around Abe’s throat like he’s positioning himself for some further action. Abe is breathing harder, trembling and staring at the edge of the ceiling without seeing anything at all, and he’s aching as if with sunburn all across his body, heat flickering over him in waves until it overcomes even self-consciousness and he reaches to fumble with the front of his jeans.

Mihashi doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even hesitate as Abe gets his zipper down and shoves the layers of fabric aside. Abe can hear Mihashi’s breathing coming a little faster, nervous and excited in equal parts; he shifts his weight, draws a knee in closer to Abe’s leg so he’s not reaching as far, and Abe gets his fingers closed around himself just as Mihashi’s thumbs press delicate friction over his skin. It’s not enough pressure to close off his airway, not even enough to offer the anxious threat of such. But there’s a kiss of a promise, as certain as if Mihashi were speaking aloud, and Abe shivers in response, feels himself twitch hopefully against his own grip.

“Takaya,” Mihashi breathes, careful on the syllables like he always is, as if speaking too loud or too fast will break some spell. Sometimes Abe finds this charming, sometimes irritating; right now it sounds like seduction, the slow whisper of his name shaping around suggestion. He lets out the shallow breath of air he’s managed, listens to it whine into a wordless plea, and Mihashi takes a deep breath, like he’s bracing himself, and tightens his fingers.

It’s not lack of air that sends Abe’s focus scattering. He can still breathe, carefully and slowly, but the pressure is constant, digging in against his throat until every inhale has the friction of a struggle under it, until each breath is stamped with Mihashi’s touch. He’s not consciously stroking up over himself -- the motion is reflexive, jerky movement without any deliberate thought behind it so it’s responding more to Mihashi’s actions than Abe’s own analysis.

“Takaya,” Mihashi says again. His voice is trembling, Abe can imagine the shake in his shoulders, but his hands are steady and certain, strong enough for Abe to trust himself to them. There’s another press, a flicker of ache right against his throat, and Abe’s groaning into the pressure so the sound spills out into the air as soon as Mihashi lets his hold go. His body is going light, burning and distant at once, his awareness sliding up and away until there’s just humming, timeless anticipation, a whole infinity in the space between breaths and the curve between Mihashi’s palms.

He can’t make it last. Maybe his tolerance will grow longer when it’s not the first time, when he wasn’t painfully hard before Mihashi’s fingers ever ghosted across his skin, but this time, this first time, Abe doesn’t even have time to go lightheaded from the pressure at his throat before he’s jerking into his hand, coming hot and messy over his fingertips and choking “ _Ren_ ” past the touch of Mihashi’s fingers at his pulse.

Mihashi’s touch eases as Abe comes down from the burst of heat in his veins, but he doesn’t pull away; his hands linger against Abe’s skin, slipping down to the curve into his shoulders but staying close and warm while Abe catches his breath and waits for the haze of satisfied fantasies to fade off from his thoughts. When he blinks the blur of pleasure from his eyes Mihashi is staring at him, his eyes sparkling with something different than tears, his lips parted on awe instead of fright.

“Was that --” Mihashi starts, framing the words to a question so familiar Abe doesn’t wait for the end.

“You were perfect,” he says without thinking, without analyzing whether it’s the right thing to say. He knows it is, needs to say it as badly as Mihashi needs to hear it, and he’s reaching out with his clean hand to grip Mihashi’s shoulder as the other boy’s expression lights up with sudden joy, as if Abe has given the sun permission to rise in his eyes. He doesn’t resist the push as Abe rocks him backwards; his hands at Abe’s shoulders slide, go from simple contact to catching his balance on the other boy, but Abe doesn’t mind taking the extra weight, barely even notices. He’s wiping his hand half-clean at the edge of his shirt, pressing his mouth to Mihashi’s with desperate force, and sometimes that earns him a flinch and a squeak but this time Mihashi just opens his mouth, goes soft and sweet under Abe’s touch, and Abe would cry if he weren’t so  _happy_. His fingers are sticky but his motions are sure, he’s tugging the front of Mihashi’s jeans open without needing to wait, without checking and double-checking for approval because he can taste the tiny breathless whimpers on Mihashi’s tongue and can feel the involuntary rocking motion of his hips.

He’s hard before Abe touches him, flushed hot with the same warmth that Abe saw glowing in his eyes before he leaned in and taste it on the other boy’s lips. Abe doesn’t pull away until he’s pushed Mihashi’s clothes half-aside, until his lips are tingling with pressure and his breathing is rushing too-fast from the kissing. Then he draws back, braces himself with an arm curled around the top of Mihashi’s head so he can look down and see the dark fringe of lashes around glowing-gold eyes, the damp part of the other boy’s lips on a whimper as Abe strokes up over him.

“Perfect,” he says again, aggressively, and leans down to punctuate with a kiss while Mihashi’s eyelashes flutter in surprise or disbelief or both. “You are perfect.” Mihashi’s eyes are shut, now, his forehead starting to crease with focused attention, but his mouth is still open, he’s breathing so hard Abe can hear the shake under each inhale. His fingers are curled against Abe’s neck, twisting up into his hair, and Abe’s breathing harder in sympathetic excitement, secondhand adrenaline curling warm with anticipation low in his stomach.

“Ren,” he says, “ _Thank_  you” and Mihashi is whimpering, arching up off the sheets and clutching at Abe’s hair as he comes. All his features soften into breathtaking beauty in the heartbeat after, the line at his forehead easing into nothing and his exhale coming soft and satisfied even before he opens his eyes to blink dreamily at Abe.

Abe is sure he’s never seen anything more lovely in all his life.

“I love you,” he says, without any of the mental preparation it usually takes for him to muster the words, and Mihashi doesn’t flinch like he usually does, just smiles soft like maybe he thinks he’s dreaming and lets his fingers trail gently across the back of Abe’s neck.

“I love you,” he says, so soft it’s almost a whisper, and Abe can feel the tears coming, the adrenaline and excitement and pleasure all hitting too fast for him to fight them back. He shuts his eyes instead, ducks his head in, and he’s hardly even surprised when his lips end up pressed warm against Mihashi’s. But it’s the fingers skimming over his skin that capture his attention, the idle movement of those that makes him smile even as his shut eyes burn with the threat of overemotional tears.

He has always loved Mihashi’s hands.


End file.
